The Write Time
by Flame Angel Lee Maxwell
Summary: *PG13 soon* The first chapter has no real connection to GW yet. The boys meet a girl (NOT OC) and then life is put out. Her flashbacks as she remembers them.


The Write Time 

By: Ri- chan

Disclaimer:

I do not own anything aside from the plot, the main character, this fic and some pretty pens. Go ahead and sue me. I have a legal counsel living with me. Ha!

Her fingers flew over the keyboard, the tiga tigga tippita tiggipitta tigg of the keys creating a melody as she pounded mercilessly on the board, getting her brainstorm out, racing the inspiration. She just couldn't seem to pop out the words fast enough, for once one chapter was done, three more were edited in her mind. She was losing this race, she knew she was, despite how long and hard she worked, it wasn't enough. She would break only when nature called or when the words slowed to a meandering walk.

She hadn't slept in weeks, nor eaten in most of that time. Her cheeks were sunken, eyes rimmed and accentuated with dark shadows. Her hair was dark and carelessly pulled up into a messy bun, strands falling out, framing her face. She had a haunted aura about her, one that only stems from unspeakable torment.

The typewriter sounds faded as she worked, the surroundings rippling as a pond's surface, changing, shifting. When it settled once more, she was still sitting at the desk, typing. However, everything else has changed, including her.

The light comes from a clean paneled window bank, bathing the room in the pink glow of the setting sun. The carpet is lush, Threadbare no more, fluffy and pale blue in color. Still sparsely furnished, the condition of the heavy mahogany was near that of new. At the desk, the young girl sat, typing in silence.

Her hair resembled the night, silken, black. It brushed the seat, shining silver in the sunlight. Her fingers were thin, pale and quick. The knobby knees were adorning black woolen knee socks, which were growing out of dark loafers, ankles twisted around the legs of the chair. 

Blue orbs hardly blinked as they raced after the words her mind created. There was no trace of any emotions on her pale features, just a soft glow. Her arms, covered by a blazer of black wool, scarcely moved other than to hunch in concentration.

She fidgeted, stopping long enough to remove the blazer, exposing white cotton polo and black plaid pleats. The typing continued, as though there hadn't been any interruption.

From the doorway, a head looks in, watching her. It is a gentle face, time having left its harsh mark upon the flesh, contorted in curiosity. Slowly the old man limps to the desk, the shuffling of his footsteps against the carpet the only sound other than the tigga tigga tippitagga ta of the typer. Looking over the girl's shoulder, watching her progress in silence, his sky eyes crinkle as he waited.

"Grandfather, what do you want?" she asked, never stopping her typing.

"I desired to see what my creative granddaughter was writing now." He chuckled, laying a gnarled old hand upon her shoulder.

"Nothing important. Just the specs for a new program. Rather dull, actually."

"Ah, Yumi," the old man chuckled, ruffling her hair lovingly, "Nothing that you do is dull. Remember when you were younger? You wanted so bad to become a writer. You would write and illustrate your stories everyday."

"Yes, but I wrote silly, frivolous tales about princesses, unicorns and knights in shining armor. That does not exist."

"But that is how all children are. They need to believe in those things. I gave you that typewriter then, for your sixth birthday."

"It works as good as ever."

"Good. I am pleased." He smiled again, patting her shoulder; "Dinner should be ready soon. Finish up quickly."

"Hai, grandfather. Domo arigato."

He left, his feet shuffling along the tatami mats of the floors, as she continued typing away. Shortly, her hands ceased moving, and her eyes quickly skimmed her document, searching for any errors. There were none. 

Pleased, she removed the final sheet, placing it at the bottom of a thick stack of papers, composing the report, then carefully slipped them into her bag. She would deliver it tomorrow, on time. Stretching, she popped a few vertebrae back into alignment, before descending to the dining room…


End file.
